


The Cabin

by indyluckycharlie



Series: The Series [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Oral Sex, Smut, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28816290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indyluckycharlie/pseuds/indyluckycharlie
Summary: As a treat, the whole team is getting a week off to do whatever they want. How will you use it?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Series: The Series [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2107335
Comments: 10
Kudos: 104





	The Cabin

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third (and at least for now the last) part of this fun little trilogy, The Series.  
> This was also my submission for the tumblr based star-spangled-bingo 2020 challenge for the square: “Am I running a bed and breakfast for a biker gang?” 
> 
> These one has a special place in my heart. Please let me know what you think, I'd love to hear from you.

* * *

You heft the last box of provisions from the back of your old jeep and step out of the garage. Resting the box on your hip, you swing the double doors closed behind you. You slide the latch into place, certain you won’t be needing the jeep again until you’re headed home in a week’s time. Between what you brought from home and your stop over at the local grocery store, you should have everything you need to get through the week. 

Not that you intend to go anywhere anyways.

But if you change your mind, you can always take his bike. The motorcycle would certainly be much more fun for sightseeing on these country roads. 

You check your watch as you make your way across the yard to the front door. To avoid suspicion, you had started out two hours before him. Even with your grocery run, you’re sure to have plenty of time to explore the cabin and get things put away before he gets here. 

You pull the screen door open and it squeaks happily on its hinges. You step into the open foyer and set your box down next to the others. Straightening, you bring your hands to your hips and survey the space. The main floor is open wide and with the large windows, you can see straight through to the private lake out back. The living room ceiling is double height, stretching all the way up to the rough cut rafters, while the loft and bedrooms overhang the kitchen and dining room. 

Everything smells faintly of cedar and you breathe it in slowly. A smile stretches wide across your face and something bubbles in your chest. You bite down on an involuntary giggle, but the corner of your mouth quirks with it anyways.

A week. A _whole week_. Seven days of uninterrupted vacation time, that’s what Tony and Steve had promised, an unprecedented treat for the whole team. As soon as they told you, your eyes darted across the conference table, locked with his for a scant moment before looking away so no one would notice. You had to fight harder than ever to suppress an excited smile. 

After the meeting, as you headed back to the training room, you found yourself caught by the wrist and pulled into a closet. His grin was wide and boyish as he held you tight to his chest.

“Please tell me you’re thinking what I’m thinking.” He whispered in the dark. 

“That we can go somewhere together?” Your own excitement bubbled at the edge of your voice. 

His smiling kiss was his answer. 

You started brainstorming that night. You decided quickly enough that somewhere quiet, out of the way, _private_ , would be just perfect. Your cover would be that you planned to visit some out-of-town friends for a long overdue visit. As for Bucky’s cover, you figured it wouldn’t hurt for him to say that he was in fact looking for exactly what you’d discussed. And when Tony caught wind of Bucky’s intentions, he offered up one of his personal vacation homes, an isolated cabin up in Maine on a large acreage of private woods. Bucky readily agreed, thanking Tony profusely. In private, the two of you started planning in earnest. 

The trickiest bit would be getting away without giving anything away and without anyone noticing that you shared a destination. While no one questioned your desire to head off for a little bit of solo time, Bucky had a much more difficult time convincing the others- namely Steve- that, yes, he really did want to spend the week alone. Thanks for the offer, but no, he really did not want to go camping with him and Sam. Yes, he knows that Nova Scotia is not that far from Maine. But that isn’t the point. Because he wants to be alone, okay? Sorry, but really, he’ll be fine.

With a little intervention from Sam, Steve eventually relented, but not before reminding Bucky that he could change his mind at any time. Later, when you were alone, Bucky admitted that he felt a little guilty lying to Steve, knowing that his old friend was just trying to look out for him. But when you offered to modify your plans so he could spend part of the week with the boys, he firmly insisted that you could not get out of spending time with him so easily. He clucked his tongue at you, shocked that you would even suggest such a thing, then kissed you senseless as he slipped between your thighs and reminded you of _exactly_ where he wanted to be. 

With one more look around, you sigh happily and decide to start with the groceries. You connect to the wifi, and silently thank Tony for his amazing sound system, as you blast music and dance your way around the kitchen. Once the refrigerator and pantry are full, you grab your suitcase, and climb the stairs to the second floor. 

You head for the biggest of the three bedrooms, which spans the whole back of the house and offers an uninhibited view of the lake through its floor to ceiling windows. You drop your bag on the king sized bed before sliding open the doors that lead to the balcony and stepping outside. A soft breeze blows off the lake and you lean against the railing to take it in. Closing your eyes, you imagine drinking midnight hot chocolate, wrapped in a heavy sweater and Bucky’s arms, while you watch the moonlight reflecting across the water. That giggle bubbles up again and this time you don’t stop it. 

In the distance, you catch the sound of an engine; softened at first by the thick woods, it grows louder as it approaches. You turn back to the bedroom, trot halfway across the room before you check yourself and slow your steps. But then you remember there’s no one here to hide your excitement from, and you let yourself jog the rest of the way to the front windows.

The sound of his bike is even louder from here, though you still can’t see him through the lush branches overhanging the private lane leading up to the cabin. You press yourself against the glass like a small child hoping to catch a glimpse of him through the leaves. Your reward comes soon enough when he clears the woods and pulls into the drive in front of the cabin. With an excited squeak that you don’t even think to conceal, you run down the stairs and to the front door.

Cringing as the screen door bangs roughly against the house when you push enthusiastically through it, you come to a stop on the porch. He’s already off his bike and halfway to the house, bag slung over his shoulder, helmet discarded. Your eyes lock and you’re sure you’re smiling like an idiot, but you just don’t care because so is he. You feel as giddy as a school girl and wonder if you were ever this batty over a boy, even when you _were_ a teenager. 

“You made good time. I didn’t think you’d be here this quick. How was th-” 

Whatever you had been about to say is swallowed up by the heat of his mouth against yours. He kisses you desperately, as if he hasn't seen you in years, instead of mere hours. His arms, caught under yours, squeeze you tight to his chest, and you stretch up onto your toes as you wrap your arms around his neck.

Long minutes are lost but you barely mark them. He kisses you with an intensity that burns and you'd willingly turn to ash in his arms. He steals your breath and you let him. You pull back only when you must, your head gone light and fuzzy.

Panting, you draw back, but not far. You breathe his breath on the inhale and give it back to him again. 

"Barnes," you scowl sternly, "were you speeding?"

"Oh," he scoffs, "yes. It was a long trip," he brushes his lips lightly against yours. "And on the bike, a man has got nothing but time to _think_."

He leans in to nip lightly at your bottom lip. When you laugh, he catches the sound as it slips from your mouth. 

He adjusts his hold on you without breaking it and pushes you backwards. Grabbing the door with one hand, he catches it with his foot and kicks it the rest of the way open. 

Once you’re over the threshold, he stops to look past you. As soon as he locates the couch, his mouth is on yours again, and he steers you in its direction. Ten more feet and the back of your legs bump against it. But just before you fall back onto it, he turns you, sits, and pulls you into his lap in one smooth motion. A quick thrill shoots through you and you giggle against his lips.

“That was pretty slick.”

“Thank you.” He grins before diving back in for another kiss, one that neither of you break for several long minutes.

Impatient hands slide up and under your shirt, wind chilled fingers are cool against hot skin. Slipping under your bra, his thumbs brush the underside of your breasts. He tilts you forward and delicately bites the pearl of your nipple through thin fabric, and your thighs tighten around him. Through his jeans, his hardness presses against you. Heat blooms and your head falls back with a groan. 

His fingers tighten on your waist as he lifts his hips to grind upwards. You pull air, sharp and quick, between your teeth, and he catches the rapid throbbing of your pulse in your exposed throat. He drops his head to nip lightly on the skin before pressing a long kiss against your heartbeat. He follows the line of it all the way up and imagines his kisses sinking into your skin, catching in your veins, racing out and back again to their inevitable destination. Slipping his arms behind you, he bends you backwards, dips his head low to meet those kisses at your heart, where he hopes they beat back at him in rhythms both wild and heady and deep and sure. 

Maybe, he thinks to himself, if he’s lucky they’ll make their home there. 

But he doesn’t let himself hold on to that thought long. He pushes it away. Something he’s had to do more and more of lately. Because _that_ is not something you’ve ever talked about. 

He does wonder though sometimes, wonders if he _does_ , wonders if you _might_. Especially late in the night, when you lay beside him, silent in the dark, running your fingers down his arm, his chest, his throat, memorizing every ridge and groove. He wonders what you’re thinking as you make a map of him with your fingers. 

But he doesn’t ask and you don’t say. So he pushes the thought away, lives only in the moment, embraces sensation over thought, cherishes what you have over what _might_ be. 

Thankfully, in moments like this, when you're warm and squirming in his lap, there is plenty enough to keep his mind occupied. He turns his thoughts to making you feel good, to feeling good together. 

He pulls you back upright, and you let your legs widen so that you fit even more firmly against him. You roll your hips back and then forward again, over and over, mimicking the motion you’ll make once he’s inside of you. With a whine, he pushes himself up to meet you, and you wonder which one of you is in control here, if either of you even is. 

A growl reverberates in his chest. Like a rubber band breaking, tension snaps in the air and he’s pushing up again. Only this time, he lifts you and with a twist you’re underneath him, pinned against the soft cushions of the couch. He shifts just enough to pull both your legs around his waist before dropping heavily between your thighs. With a hiss, you arch up into him and dig your nails into his back. Hungrily, you bite at the soft skin beneath his chin and drop your hands to his ass, forcing him more tightly against you. 

“Greedy girl,” comes his laughing voice, hot against your face. 

And you don’t argue. The squeeze of your fingers and low growl are answer enough. You are greedy, and happy to be so. Luckily, he seems content to give you as much as you want. And even then, you sometimes wonder if you’ll ever get enough of him, if there are even enough hours in the day, or years in a lifetime for that. 

You whimper when he pulls back, letting cool air rush between you. He shushes you and you scowl, until you realize that he’s reaching one hand down between you. But when he gets to where your button should be, he frowns and looks down.

He looks betrayed, and you can’t help but laugh breathlessly at his consternation. “They’re on the side.” 

“Why would anyone do that?” He grumbles as he searches impatiently.

You can’t help but laugh again. “They’re sailor shorts. If you’d been paying attention, you would have seen that for yourself. Besides, they’re cu-ute!” You finish with a high pitched squeak. 

Not a man to be thwarted by such a flimsy obstacle, he made short work of your buttons and found a much better use for his fingers. In contrast to his fevered movements just minutes before, he rubs his knuckles in firm and measured strokes along the thin fabric of your underwear. 

Once you’re squirming enough to his liking and the backs of his fingers come away damp, he tugs both your shorts and underwear off and discards them over his shoulder. 

“Scooch up,” he gestures with a nod of his head and you happily obey, grateful for the exceptionally large couch. 

With an approving wink, he bows his back. Cupping a hand behind your knee, he pulls your leg up to meet him. He works his way up your thigh. Gentle kisses mix with firm bites that soon have you panting and lifting your hips in supplication. 

He throbs painfully at the sight of you so open to him. He wants to kiss you here with the same fervour with which he had your lips. But he makes himself go slow, tasting you first, almost delicately with quick, light licks. Then he turns to deep and deliberate strokes of his tongue, slipping inside and out. When your muffled whines fill his ears, he knows he’s found the rhythm you love best. He glances up and sees that you’re pressing the back of your hand against your mouth, trying to stop the sounds from escaping. 

With a frown, he reaches up and pulls your hand down. 

“You don’t have to do that doll.” He rasps against your sensitive skin. “There’s no one here to keep quiet for.”

When you nod blindly and grasp instead at the cushions, he returns to his steady rhythm, this time sliding his fingers inside and eliciting a now uninhibited moan from you. He pumps them in and out slowly, curling them up to press firmly the way you like it. Your hips jerk upwards and your thighs twitch, desperate to squeeze closed. He quickens his pace, urging on the building pressure, until whines turn deep and throaty and you abruptly arch up from the couch with a barely articulate, “fuck, James!” 

When you fall back limp and trembling, he crawls up so that he can look down into your face. Your eyes are closed and hair clings to your temples. He can’t hide how pleased he is; he wouldn’t bother even if you were looking. He loves that he can do this to you. And every time, he marvels that you even let him. For a moment the ache between his own thighs cannot rival the proud feeling in his chest. 

That is until you look at him with eyes gone dark and feral, sending a thrill and heated blood rushing through him. When you pull him down into you, hoarsely commanding “inside _now_ ,” it’s with far more strength than he thought you had left in you. Never inclined to defy a direct order from you, he’s out of his jeans and inside of you before you can even draw breath to command him a second time.

You rock against him as he presses you over and over into the cushions. Abruptly, the couch frame creaks ominously under his grip. Surprised, he hooks an arm under you and rolls to the floor, pulling you down on top of him. In response to his winded huff as he hits the hardwood, you let out a breathy laugh and barely allow a break in your rhythm before you’re taking control. 

Eyes now open and holding fast to his, you coax unintelligible sounds from his lips. You whisper expletive laced praises until he’s groaning sharply, head thrown back and toes curling, and your own breath is lost to screaming. 

And when the last hoarse echo of his name bounces from the high ceilings and fades away, you collapse against his chest, sweat sticky and spent. 

You giggle as you rise and fall with his breath. His own laughter reverberates through you in rolling waves.

After several long minutes, you test worn vocal chords. “Good thinking, moving to the floor. I’m not sure Tony would approve of us doing that on his couch.”

“But that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it? He’s not here to complain about it. Nobody is. It’s just you,” he points with emphasis, first to you and then back to himself, “and me, and a whole week of doing whatever we want.”

The thought pleases you and you say as much. He brushes damp hair away from your face and kisses a line down from your forehead to your chin, before pausing in thought.

“Although,” he says with a grimace, remembering the creak of metal on wood, “we might want to avoid this particular couch. I’m not sure it can handle us.”

**\----**

For four days, just as he said, you do exactly whatever you want, whenever you want, _wherever_ you want, and often _as loud as_ you want. 

Four days of spontaneity, of tv shows unfinished and board games knocked to the floor, of meal prep interrupted, of clothes lost somewhere between the kitchen and the living room, of bare backs pressed against cabinets, against stairs, against floors. Four days of desire undenied, sounds unsuppressed, and pleasure uninhibited. 

It’s also four days of running your fingers through his hair while you watch TV, of slow dancing in the kitchen, of your head in his lap while he reads, of his back leaned against you as you watch the sunset from the porch. Four days of “honey" and "sweetheart" and "baby." 

Four days of not having to survive on secret looks and stolen touches, of reveling in a secret not kept. 

And it feels good. 

It is probably because of this wave of good feeling that- when something unexpected happens on the fifth day- you do something completely reckless.

**\---**

Bucky is talking to you. 

At least, you think so. It’s hard to be sure over the roar of your own heartbeat in your ears. You try to raise your head to hear better, but you only manage to lift it an inch before it falls back heavy against the bed. For a moment, you wonder where the hell your pillow got off to before deciding you don’t really care. You squeeze your eyes tight and try to focus instead on slowing your breath while untangling your fingers from the sheets bunched above your head. 

You take in long, slow pulls of air, and the buzz in your ears begins to quiet. After another minute, you slowly push yourself up onto your elbows. Still half dazed and with only half of your usual strength, you try again.

“What did you say?”

His low chuckle comes muffled against your thigh, where he lingers still, pressing small kisses into the crease of your hip to help ease you down from your high. 

He turns his head just enough so that you can hear him. “I asked, ‘How many is that today?’”

You snort a small laugh, and shake your head. “Uh… a lot? Who can keep track of these things?”

“But how will I know if I beat my record yet?” He asks in mock seriousness.

“Well, if that’s the case…” You tilt your head, match his expression. “I’d say we need _at least_ three more for that.”

He pulls himself up so that his chin rests on your stomach. “I thought you weren’t keeping track.”

“It’s coming back to me now.” You nod knowingly. 

“Is that so?” His voice is a laugh and sweet as honey. You nod with all the seriousness you can muster. He pushes up onto his hands, leans over you as you ease back against the bed. “Well, I’m sure I can manage three more before the day is done. Might even be best to aim for four or five, just to be sure.”

“That does sound like a good idea.” 

“I thought you might approve.” Smiling, he dips his head down, presses his warm mouth against yours. With a nudge, he urges your lips open, and his tongue seeks out your own. The taste of your sex lingers there and has you arching upward, instinctively deepening the kiss. 

Heat builds between you, as it always does, but instead of bubbling over, catching wild and fast, it burns steady and slow. And when he pulls back, slowly breaking the kiss, the string that binds you together does not break with it. The gentle press of his nose and cheek as he nuzzles sweetly against you feels no less intense than his kiss had been, it brands you just the same. 

“Still disappointed that our breakfast plans were rained out?” He shifts back to look into your eyes, a knowing smile on your lips.

You glance briefly at the window where beads of water still cling to the pane, even though the storm seems to have passed. You’d gotten up unusually early for a vacation morning, with the hopes of taking the canoe out to the far side of the lake where a short hiking trail would lead you to an overlook, perfect for eating breakfast and watching the sunrise. Unfortunately, a storm system had shifted in the early hours and disrupted your plans. 

You decided to make the most of your early rising and made muffins with some wild blueberries you’d found the day before. However, before they’d even finished baking, you’d found yourself topless and streaked with floury fingerprints. As soon as they were out of the oven, Bucky tossed the muffins on the range to cool, where they currently remained, uneaten and surrounded by a mess you’d been too preoccupied to clean up. 

Locking your eyes with his once again, you shake your head, then stretch up to kiss the tip of his nose. 

“Nope.”

As he smiles down at you, you reach a hand up to ruffle his hair. You notice the way the sides are starting to brush against the tops of his ears and know he’ll want a haircut soon. He never likes to let it get too long, not anymore. So as you let your fingers slide through the longer strands on top, you don’t tell him how much you love it. You simply enjoy it while you can, tugging the ends gently. He lets his eyes close and purrs through happy lips. 

Your smile widens before you huff abruptly in indignation when he playfully drops down limp on top of you. Laughing, you squirm and push him away just enough to allow air to move freely back into your lungs. 

You're sure he’s smiling smugly, thinking himself a great comedian. And you’re too happy to tell him otherwise. 

Warm breath fans across your throat as he settles his head against your collar bone. He covers you completely, taking just enough of his own weight so that you won’t be uncomfortable. He lets out a whimper- not unlike a puppy- when you scratch behind his ears. Your eyes close as you run your fingers down his back and arm and soon your mind is drifting into that soft warm place between waking and dreaming. 

After some time, he stirs, peppering small kisses up your neck. His voice comes soft through the haze of half sleep. 

“Would you mind if I take a swim?”

You smile to yourself. You never realized before how much he loves swimming, you rarely ever saw him take advantage of the pool back home. When you remarked on it just two days before, as he set out for his second swim that day, he dipped his head shyly, confessed that he usually only swims at night when no one else is around. He admitted that, even after all this time, even with the team, he rarely feels comfortable having his scars on full display. 

You marveled in the aftermath of his confession, first with the warm buzz of surprise that the two of you still have things to discover about one another. And then about how you had somehow failed to notice his evening swims- an impressive feat on his part given how many of those same nights you’d spent curled against or moaning beneath him. You couldn’t quite make out how he’d managed it. 

But as you let your eyes skim softly over him as he made his way into the water, your thoughts shifted, letting sadness slip in. You thought of how intimately familiar you were with his naked form. How often had you run your hands along his skin? How many kisses had you pressed into every line and plane of him? How often had you worshipped the very flesh he sought to hide from others? Your adoration for every inch of him could hardly make sense of the shame he carried. 

At the edge of your sadness and confusion, another feeling sought purchase. A feeling that made your heart squeeze and your hands itch with the need to do something, to protect and to comfort. A feeling that made you want to call him back to you and hold him tight in your arms while whispering solace into his ear. A feeling that you refused to name. A feeling he too seemed unwilling to name, although you sometimes thought you saw it in his eyes, tasted it on the edge of his lips, felt it in the secret squeeze of his hand before missions. 

You crack a heavy eyelid at him, shake your head, hum an “unh-uh.” He kisses you three more times- the last leaving your lips tingling and your thoughts a fog- then climbs out of bed. You’re only cold from the loss of his body heat for a moment before he’s pulling a blanket up and over your shoulders. You wrinkle your nose in thanks and roll to your side. You watch as he puts on his swim trunks, offering cheeky compliments of his assets that he laughingly kisses off your lips. When he slips out to the lake you curl yourself around his pillow and drift once more into half sleep, breathing in the scent of him. 

Eventually you wake again, this time fully. Spreading your limbs wide like a starfish, you stretch and relish in the feel of pleasantly sore muscles, before popping out of bed. You decide to shower before you tackle the mess you know is waiting in the kitchen. By the time you're done, he should be back, and then you can clean up and make a late lunch together. You smile as you step into the shower thinking about how you can then abandon the new mess to pursue more pleasurable activities than washing dishes.

**\---**

"Are you sure he's not going to mind us dropping in like this?"

“It’ll be fine.” Steve glances sideways at Sam in the passenger seat. Skepticism is etched deep into his brow.

“I don’t know man. He made it _pretty_ clear that he wanted to do his own thing this week.”

Steve waves a dismissive hand. “Yeah, but he’s not going to turn us away when he hears what happened at our campsite. It would only be one night anyways. Besides, if he really wants to be alone _that bad_ , he’d still let us change our clothes and grab something to eat while we figure out where to go next.” 

Recognizing the sense of this, but still feeling uneasy for a reason he can’t put his finger on, Sam opts to say nothing more. He turns to watch out the window as they bounce over uneven road surrounded by increasingly dense trees. He can certainly appreciate why Bucky might want this place all to himself. Even as much as Sam loves his team, alone time is a rare commodity in their lives. 

As they come around a bend, they catch their first glimpse of the cabin, but it’s another 50 feet before they can get a good view of it. At the sight of it, even Sam’s unease can’t override the sudden and aching urge for a shower and a real bed, not after the rude 3 am awakening by a rogue tree branch that ripped a hole straight through their tent during an abrupt deluge. After spending 30 useless minutes trying to fix it, he and Steve had sought shelter in their SUV. Two cramped and sleepless hours later, they decided to head down to the dock and catch the first ferry back to Maine. It didn’t take either of them long to agree that they’d rather finish out their trip in a hotel. It was on their way down to Portland that an exhausted Steve suggested that they break up the long drive with a stop over at Bucky’s borrowed cabin. 

All is quiet as they pull up in front and park behind Bucky’s bike. They eye the property appreciatively as they get out of the truck and make their way to the house. 

The front door is wide open and they peer through the screen into the dim house. 

“Hello?” Steve calls through the door. When he gets no answer, he tries a second time. Only silence greets him, so he reaches for the door and steps inside. 

“Nice,” Sam remarks as they take in the space. “Not a bad place for a little getaway.”

Steve nods in agreement. 

“Buck?” He asks into the silence of the house. Still nothing. He wanders further in and stops abruptly at the threshold to the kitchen. “Whoa,” he laughs in surprise.

Coming up from behind, Sam looks around his shoulder and his eyes widen. “What the hell happened here?” He looks around at the unwashed dishes strewn about, blueberries spilled on the counter, and flour dusting everything. There’s even a whisk laying in the middle of the floor, caked in dried batter. “Some kind of baking disaster?”

Steve shakes his head with a laugh, “He’s usually so neat, maybe this is his idea of ‘vacation living?’” 

“Maybe,” Sam snorts in amusement as he continues to survey the damage. It sure is an awfully big mess for one person to make. 

Pulling Sam from his thoughts, Steve cranes his neck back to look at the balcony and says, “I’m just gonna run upstairs. Maybe he’s taking a nap?”

He’s halfway up when Sam calls him back, pointing to the lake. “There he is.” 

As Steve turns, he sees Bucky emerging from the water. Bucky grabs a towel from a deck chair and begins to dry off, and Steve makes his way to the back. With one more look at the kitchen, Sam pushes the uneasy feeling of not-rightness from his mind and follows. 

As they approach the door, Steve sees the moment when Bucky catches sight of their SUV in the driveway. He goes stock still and Steve recognizes his stance from their many missions, “all senses activated.” Concern creases deep into Bucky’s brow. Realizing they likely startled their friend, Steve calls out to him as he pulls open the door and steps out onto the porch.

“Hey Buck! It’s just us.” His voice, at first jovial, tapers off into uncertainty. Instead of relaxing as he expected, Bucky stiffens further in alarm, and for a moment, a look of sheer panic flashes in his eyes before he stifles it. 

“Oh. Hey,” Bucky’s voice comes out unnaturally light, forcibly so. “What are you guys doing here?” 

Steve shoots a quick glance at Sam. Sam feels it too and offers a quirked eyebrow as if to say “I told you so.” 

Steve frowns and tries to push his unease away. Surely, Bucky was just surprised that’s all. He wouldn’t really be upset. Maybe a little annoyed that they’re intruding on his alone time, sure. But upset? That seems so unlike him. 

“Sorry, for barging in on you unexpectedly,” Steve begins tentatively. Bucky’s flat expression in response to his apology nudges something uncomfortable in him. “We tried the house first, but-”

“Did you go upstairs?” Steve tells himself he must be imagining the note of strain he catches under Bucky’s words. _Is_ he upset? Yeah, okay, he _had_ made it clear he wanted some time to himself, but he’s never been one turn away a friend. So why does he seem so edgy? 

“No…” he says slowly. 

Sam laughs with false brightness, hoping to bring some levity to an unexpectedly tense encounter. “We did see the kitchen though. Jesus man, what a mess! I can just hear Tony now: ‘Am I running a bed and breakfast for a biker gang?’”

Bucky offers a polite but confused half smile and again Steve senses something strained in the action. “Sorry, what?”

“Oh right,” Sam tilts his head back in realization. “You weren’t there for that, it was just this thing that Tony said this one time- you know what? It’s not important.”

“Listen, we’re sorry. It’s just that our tent got destroyed in the storm last night. A tree branch ripped a hole right through it and we got drenched...” 

_There_ . There it is. Bucky frowns, concerned, tension easing as sympathy takes over, and Steve relaxes. _This_ is more like the Bucky he knows. 

“...so we decided we are _done_ with camping.”

Bucky laughs through his nose, and all signs of his earlier guardedness slip away. 

Mollified by the change in their friend, Sam adds, “We figured we’d finish out the rest of our trip down in Portland. Get a hotel, enjoy some food, maybe some music. They’ve got a few breweries worth checking out.”

Bucky nods. “Sounds nice, definitely an improvement.” 

“Yeah, so like I said, we don’t want to bug you, but we’ve been up since three and figured we’d break up the drive a bit. We were thinking we could grab lunch with you, maybe even borrow your shower or bunk with you for the ni-” 

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Steve sees Bucky’s defenses immediately go up again. Although this time, the twitching of his jaw says that he’s more nervous than upset. What could he possibly be nervous about? Could he- is he _hiding_ something? 

Steve steps forward. “Look, Buck, we’re sorry we didn’t mean to bother you-”

“You’re- not bothering me.” Despite the anxious tense of his shoulders, Bucky’s voice almost sounds normal this time. Steve could almost believe the lie, except for that smallest of hitches. “Look, um, why don’t you guys stay here,” Steve’s eyes flash to Sam’s at this and he can see that he is just as confused, “while I get dressed and then I’ll see what I can do to get you guys sorted out.”

Bucky raises his hand and gestures in an involuntary “stay” motion. In an attempt to cover it up, he waves his hands back towards the lake and then at the woods. “You guys are welcome to explore a little bit. The lake is really nice and there are plenty of trails to hike on.”

Confusion gives way to hurt, but Steve tries not to show it. “Sure, of course. We can wait.”

“Thanks, and I-” Bucky’s lips press into a flat line and Steve catches a look of regret in his eyes. But then he looks away and whatever he’d been about to say, he doesn’t. “Give me a minute.” 

Bucky wraps his towel around his waist and just as he looks up towards the cabin, he pauses. If he hadn’t already been reading into his friend’s every action Steve might not have thought anything of it, but as it is, he catches something that he can’t make sense of. For just the barest moment, Bucky’s eyes widen before crinkling in the corners into a smile. 

**\---**

You step out of the shower and grab a towel. As you dry yourself off, you note with annoyance that you forgot to turn the fan on and everything is coated with a light layer of condensation. 

You pause as you towel your hair dry. Were those voices? You hold still, head tilted and yes, that is definitely at least two different voices. You rub off the last lingering water drops and cross quickly into the bedroom. Tossing your towel to the side, you grab clothes and pull them on as you stride to the door. 

Just as you're hopping one-legged into your shorts you catch the voices again. As soon as you're out of the bedroom, you can see from the balcony that the living room tv isn't on. A snake of disquiet slithers lightly through your insides, but you quell it. You haven't seen anybody else since you've been here, given the size of the property, privacy is a near guarantee. But the main road isn't _that_ far away so it wouldn't be completely improbable for some other vacationers to have made a wrong turn down the long lane. 

Still, as you make your way down the stairs, you do so gingerly and without any sound. 

As soon as you're downstairs, you find justification for your instinctive unease. Steve and Sam are standing in the backyard with Bucky, who looks in only slightly better condition than a deer caught in headlights.

"Fuck." The snake in your stomach hisses smugly and you grumble angrily at it. You do your best to ignore it as your brain starts firing uneasy questions your way. 

They couldn't have seen your jeep, right? Not tucked away in the garage like it is? Did you leave anything of yours out on the back porch? Oh shit, they weren't in the house were they? You're certain, even though you can't see any, that stray bits of clothes are hiding somewhere around here. 

You peek back outside. Even from this distance, you can see the subtle hunch of anxiety knotting Bucky's shoulders. You can almost feel his heartbeat racing, his thoughts dashing about wildly as he works out a plan of action. 

You catch the strains of their conversation as they float through the back door. You are certain that he’s trying to work out how, after hearing their truly pitiful tale, he can get rid of them without being genuinely rude. 

You could hide upstairs, you suppose. Grab what you can while they're distracted and hope that they don’t notice any of your belongings laying around that you might have missed. You give a quick look around, wondering if it’s possible. You catch sight of your sweater and book on the couch and start to reach for them. 

But then you stop. Because suddenly, it just seems so… _silly._

You aren’t a couple of star-crossed teenagers, you don’t _really_ have anything to hide, except perhaps to salvage some privacy amongst your friends. It’s not like you’d be in trouble if someone found out or as if you have anything to be ashamed of. 

You step away from the couch and look to the back yard where Bucky desperately attempts to think of a plan. 

Held still by some power you can’t fully understand, you watch him. You take in his dark hair, plastered back with water and a sweep of his hand, the water that drips from his earlobes and runs glossy lines down his chest, the nervous twitch of his hands as he gestures to the far side of the lake, the quirk at the corner of his mouth that tells you he’s thinking.

And as you watch, that feeling comes back. Rises again. Flits about restlessly in your stomach like an untamed thing. Sends a flicker of excitement down your veins and squeezes warm in your chest.

That feeling you refuse to name. 

And suddenly that seems silly too. 

Because- 

Because you _love_ him. 

And pretending like you don’t feels as ridiculous as it is futile. 

Your feet carry you across the hardwood floor. Past the counter where you mixed batter and laughingly swatted away mischievous fingers tugging at the waistband of your shorts. Past the couch where you napped against his chest. Past burnt embers from a late night fire. Past every moment of unfettered joy and unguarded affection. And right to the back door. 

He catches sight of you through the screen and his eyes widen almost imperceptibly. You hold his gaze, give him a heartbeat to signal you if he wants to. But as you reach for the handle, his eyes soften and crinkle at the corners. 

The door slides open with the hushed friction of wheels on track, but Steve hears it, starts to turn. Sam, noticing Steve’s movement, does the same. 

You lean against the open door frame, watch as first Steve’s and then Sam’s eyes widen in surprise. Steve’s mouth falls open as his mind tries to make sense of what he’s seeing. Where Steve’s mouth is agape, Sam’s curves into something approving, and he darts his eyes back over his shoulder. Bucky ducks his head in reply, doing little to suppress his growing smile. 

You raise your chin at them, narrow your eyes playfully. The look of a woman inconvenienced.

“You guys look pretty pathetic, so you can stay the night. _But_ -” you hold up a finger in warning- “tomorrow you have to leave. _And_ it’s not our fault if you end up walking in on something you wish you hadn’t seen.” 

With a wink and a smile, you turn on your heel and move back inside. 

Steve huffs in disbelief and turns a growing smile on Bucky.

“Uh, Buck?”

Eyes fixed on ground, Bucky grins wide and unabashed, though his cheeks glow a soft pink. 

Steve clears his throat and Bucky raises his head to his friends, looks back and forth between them. 

“You guys hungry? I could make some lunch.” 

Still wide-eyed with wonder, Steve laughs, as Sam pats Bucky encouragingly on the back. Then, Bucky’s slipping past them. With two hops, he’s up the steps and disappearing into the cabin behind you.


End file.
